For The Grace
by EKWTSM9
Summary: A short WHN one-shot that fits between Act 4 and the epilog of "For The Love Of God".


… _For The Grace_

The damp fog still shrouded the large Mt. Davidson cross as Inspector Steve Keller pulled the tan LTD as close to the school bus as he could. He got out and slammed the door a little harder than he had intended, anger and worry still colouring his mood. In the aftermath of the brief but turbulent hijacking and hostage taking, a crowd of priests, nuns, cops and civilians was milling about, as statements were being taken and accounts exchanged.

As Steve moved through the crowd towards a black-and-white parked haphazardly nearby, he could hear snippets of animated conversations. "The shotgun was so large…" "He didn't look like a killer…" "That priest just threw him out of the bus…"

Dressed in the black shirt with the turn-around collar of the Catholic clergy, his eyes closed, Lieutenant Mike Stone was sitting on the hood of the black-and-white, cradling his sling-encased right arm with his left. He opened his eyes when he sensed his partner's approach.

Steve looked at him without making eye contact, jerking his head in the direction of the LTD. "Get in the car," he said, his voice flat.

Mike recognized that tone, and he stared at the younger man for a couple of seconds then closed his eyes, trying not to wince as he slid off the hood. Instinctively, Steve reached out to take his arm briefly, then pulled back and headed for the car, moving towards the driver's side door at a clip.

Following Steve with his eyes, Mike moved slowly through the dispersing crowd, trying to ignore a few people enthusiastically attempting to thank him. Steve was already behind the wheel when Mike got the passenger side door open and crawled carefully into the car, reaching back slowly with his left hand to pull the heavy door closed. He stared at his partner's profile as Steve started the engine and began to weave the large sedan through the groups of people and towards the exit. With a heavy sigh, he turned to face the windshield and closed his eyes, putting his left hand on his injured shoulder.

They drove in silence. Mike could tell when they had left the Mount and were once more in The City proper. Eventually he opened his eyes and glanced out the side window. It took him several seconds to realize where they were, and then speculate where they were headed. He almost opened his mouth to protest but thought better of it.

Eventually the car slowed to a stop and the engine was turned off. Reluctantly, Mike opened his eyes to find Steve still sitting behind the wheel, finally looking at him. Steve cocked his head slightly, as if defying Mike to challenge him. When the older man said nothing, he nodded his head once, got out and circled the car quickly to open the passenger side door then stepped back and waited.

With a small resigned sigh, Mike turned carefully in the seat, putting both feet on the ground before slowly pulling himself out with his left hand on the door frame. As he stepped away from the car, Steve slammed the door then headed towards the hospital emergency entrance, leaving Mike no alternative than to follow in his wake.

# # # # #

Mike sat on the edge of his bed, letting Steve pull the pajama top around his right shoulder and do up the buttons. They had barely exchanged a dozen words since leaving the hospital, both dealing with their own personal demons at the moment.

He knew that Steve was angry, and had been since the shooting in the church. And he also knew that Steve's anger was two-pronged – at Mike, for his pig-headedness at placing himself in dangerous circumstances, and then at himself, for not being able to protect his partner from those dangers, first at the church and then at Mount Davidson.

Mike was angry too, but not at Steve. He too was angry at himself, for the oversight of not checking out the church before the service, for letting Father Driscoll step between him and Martin Novack, and then for passing out, allowing Inspector Grabowski to be shot and Novack to slip through their fingers. He also knew he had gone too far on the Mount, going after Novack on the bus. It had been luck more than skill that had allowed him to overcome the painful handicap of his almost useless right arm to overpower the strong young shooter and toss him from the bus.

The pajama top buttoned, Steve straightened up, lifting the bedcovers while Mike gingerly laid back against the pillows. As Steve pulled the covers into place, he glanced at his partner, who was trying to find the least painful position to lie, his eyes closed. "You want something to eat or drink?"

Mike shook his head, keeping his eyes closed. The painkiller he had taken at the hospital was making him woozy and he just wanted to lie still for a while. And truth be told, he just didn't want to talk.

Steve crossed to the window and closed the heavy dark drapes, blocking out most of the dull grey light. Though it seemed much later, given all that had happened in such a short span of time, it was only late afternoon. Without another word, he walked to the door and, with nary a backward glance, left the room, turning out the overhead light and closing the door behind himself.

# # # # #

There was a quiet knock on the front door. Glancing at his watch, Steve put his coffee cup and newspaper down, got up from the sofa and crossed the room, snapping on the porch light and taking a brief glimpse through the peephole before unlocking the deadbolt and pulling the door open.

"Father," he greeted the older gentleman on the stoop with a broad smile, "I didn't expect to see you tonight."

A black fedora in his hand, the tall grey-haired priest grinned back and chuckled deeply. "No, I bet you didn't, young fella. I hope you don't mind. I talked to some of your boys at Headquarters and they told me where you and Mike were."

Steve shook his head suddenly, as if trying to shake some sense back into his thoughts. "Father, I'm sorry, come on in." He stepped back, holding the door open further and allowing the big man to step over the threshold, out of the cool early evening air and into the warmly inviting living room.

"Thank you," Driscoll nodded as he stepped inside, beginning to slip off his topcoat.

Steve closed the door and turned to him, his hands out to take the coat and hat. As Driscoll thanked him again, the priest stepped deeper into the room, rubbing his hands together as if to warm them. "Steve, I'm sorry to disturb you tonight, but, well, after everything that happened at the church today, and not knowing exactly what went on up at Mount Davidson, well, I just wanted to find out how Mike was and how everything ended up. I mean, I know you caught Novack up there, and I was told 'the big picture' so to speak, but, well…" His voice trailed off, as if he was unsure how to explain himself any further.

Steve turned away from hanging up the priest's coat in the closest, gesturing towards the sofa. "Please, Father, have a seat. Would you like a coffee? I just put a fresh pot on."

"Oh, yes, please, that would be great," Driscoll smiled.

"And believe me you don't have to explain yourself any further," Steve chuckled softly as he crossed to the kitchen. "I know exactly what you mean. And no, you're not disturbing me at all tonight." He stopped talking as he entered the kitchen, opening a cupboard to remove another mug. He heard a soft sound behind him and turned, only mildly surprised to see Driscoll standing in the doorway. With a somewhat self-conscious smile, Steve continued, "As a matter of fact, there're a couple of things I wanted to talk to you about too, if _you_ don't mind."

As Steve took the milk out of the fridge and pulled the sugar bowl closer to the edge of the counter, Driscoll stepped to the counter and prepared his coffee. "You got it, Steve, anything you need. But, ah, first things first if that's okay. How's Mike doing?"

Steve's eyes shot upwards briefly. "He's upstairs, sleeping. He's okay. They took seventeen pellets out of his upper arm and shoulder, but thankfully none of them were too deep or hit anything important. They still hurt like hell and tore up some muscle, but it could've been a hell of lot worse. He's not going to be able to use his arm for about a week, but I don't think that's gonna stop him from going back to work in a day or two."

Driscoll exhaled loudly. "Well, that's a relief to hear. The last time I saw him they were wheeling him out on a stretcher." He shook his head, picking up the coffee cup and leading the way back into the living room. "I've been feeling guilty about that all afternoon."

Trailing behind, Steve's brow furrowed. "Guilty? What do you have to feel guilty about?"

The priest sat on one end of the sofa, putting his coffee cup on the table before him. Steve dropped into the armchair, picking up his own cup and taking a sip.

Driscoll looked up at him, looking a little contrite. "Mike didn't tell you?"

"Tell me what?"

"Ah," Driscoll said slowly, taking a deep breath. As Steve listened intently, Driscoll explained about how, after the service, he had approached the altar and knelt in prayer at the same time Martin Novack emerged from the confessional, how Novack had called out for 'Father Driscoll' and he had instinctively answered a split second before Mike did. He told Steve how Mike had tried to explain how hard it was to hear in the church sometimes but how Novack hadn't bought his explanation and how he, Father Driscoll, told Mike he couldn't allow him to risk his life, how Mike had pushed him down as Novack pulled the trigger, taking the shot that was meant for him.

Steve remained silent when Driscoll finished, his unfocused gaze on the coffee cup in his lap.

"He, ah, he didn't tell you any of that?" Driscoll ventured softly.

Steve looked up and took a deep breath. "Ah, no, we, ah, we haven't really talked much since the hospital. We've both kind of had our own...issues."

Driscoll smiled wryly and looked down at his own cup. "Steve, please don't tell me you've been feeling guilty about all this too." He looked up into the younger man's eyes. "Have you?" he asked gently.

Steve met the kind eyes evenly, suddenly aware of what made this man such a consummate confessor. He smiled somewhat contritely himself and chuckled slightly. "I think guilt comes with the territory in this job. Maybe not all the time, but often enough." He hesitated, looking away. Driscoll waited, knowing there was more to come.

"I failed him today. I should have stayed closer to him, never let him out of my sight." He inhaled raggedly, glancing up briefly. "I swear, those ten seconds or so it took to get from the car into the church, after we heard the shot…I swear they were the longest seconds of my life."

Driscoll nodded, smiling slightly. "But he's okay, Steve. You said it yourself, it could have been a hell of a lot worse."

"Oh, I'm grateful for that, you have no idea. But I think what's bothering me the most right now is what happened on Mount Davidson. I know he was functioning on anger, adrenaline and painkillers, but what he did up there… I was so mad at him I couldn't see straight."

Driscoll's smile had slowly turned to a frown. "I was only given the vaguest of broad strokes about what happened up there…" he said quietly, encouragingly.

Shaking his head, staring at the priest uncertainly, as if suddenly unsure about just how much of his inner life he was willing to share, Steve slowly began to fill Father Driscoll in on the hunt for Martin Novack after the shooting in the church. As he relayed the details of the quick hospital visit, followed by the discovery of Novack on Mount Davidson and the subsequent brief bus hijacking and rescue, Driscoll's eyes got wider and wider and his jaw literally dropped.

"He actually threw Novack out of the bus?" The priest's voice was hushed and awed. "With one arm?"

Eyebrows raised, Steve nodded with a 'what did you expect, this is Mike we're talking about' smirk. "I had to drag him back to the hospital after that. He'd torn seven sutures open and they had to sew him up all over again. They bandaged and strapped him up even tighter. And I had to promise the doctors I was taking him home."

"Wow," Driscoll whispered, almost to himself, "I admired the man before but now…"

He looked at Steve a little guiltily. "Sorry, it's just… well, to be honest, I wish I could have been there to see that."

Steve chuckled and shook his head. "I might have been impressed too if I hadn't been so mad at him."

Driscoll let that settle for a moment, and then he asked quietly, " _Mad_ at him, or _scared_ for him?"

Steve froze for a split second, then he leaned back in the chair and sighed, shaking his head. "I don't know, I really don't…both maybe, I don't know."

"Well, if it was anything like I felt after he pushed me to the floor and took the shot…guilt, fear, anger…helplessness." Driscoll leaned forward and put a hand on Steve's knee. "Now I don't know Mike Stone all that well, but from what I've witnessed in the past few days, he's the kind of man who's really hard to dissuade once he sets his mind to something, am I right?"

"A little bit like you, I would think. Am _I_ right?" Steve asked with a tiny smile.

Driscoll hesitated a beat then his weathered features contorted in a facial shrug. "Well, I'm sure some people would agree with you on that one," he chuckled gently. "Steve, short of running him over with your car, I don't think there was any way in hell you could have stopped him from doing what he did." He patted Steve's knee and sat back. "So don't beat yourself up over it. He's gonna be fine, you said; he's upstairs sleeping – all is right with the world. Now, we could be sitting in the waiting room of the hospital right now and that would be a different matter. But we're not. Right?"

Steve thought about it for several long seconds, not moving. Driscoll picked up his mug and took a sip. "Oh, yuck, it's cold. I'm gonna get a fresh cup. You want one?" he asked, getting to his feet.

Steve looked up and met Driscoll's inquiring stare. "Ah, sure," he said, standing and picking up his cup. He followed the priest into the kitchen.

As Driscoll dumped the contents of both mugs into the sink and reached for the percolator, Steve leaned against the counter. "Father, can I ask you a favour?"

"Of course."

"Mike and I really haven't eaten since early this morning, and I know he's gonna be ravenous when he finally wakes up. Would you mind if I took off for a little bit to get us something to eat? I don't want to leave him alone."

Driscoll glanced at his watch. "Sure. I don't have to be back at the church for another hour or so. I'll hold down the fort."

Steve smiled, slapping the priest on the shoulder as he turned towards the door. "Thanks, Father. I'll try not to be too long."

Driscoll watched him go, knowing that the sudden departure wasn't only to get some dinner but also to allow the young officer to put some distance between himself and the priest, to give himself some time alone to think over what they had just discussed.

Smiling, a fresh cup of coffee in hand, Driscoll made his way back into the living room. He was just about to sit when he glanced up the stairs to the second floor. He hesitated for a beat then put his cup on the coffee table, crossed to the stairs and started up.

The door at the top of the stairs was closed. Surmising this to be the master bedroom, he opened the door quietly. The room was dark, but the spill of light from the hallway fell across the bed and its occupant. Driscoll froze and listened; he could faintly hear the even steady breaths of deep sleep.

Leaving the door open, he crossed to the far side of the bed. As his eyes adjusted to the dim light, he could see Mike's head against the pillows, and under the pajama top the bulge of the bulky bandages and sling over his right shoulder and chest. He reached into his jacket pocket and took out a small purple stole, draping it over his shoulders and kneeling by the side of the bed.

Closing his eyes and, making the sign of the cross, he whispered, "O God of heavenly powers, by the might of your command, you drive away from our bodies, all sickness and all infirmity; Be present in your goodness, with your servant Michael, that his weakness may be banished, and his strength restored, and that his health being renewed, he may bless your holy Name, through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen." He blessed himself once more then very gently laid his hand on Mike's chest, being careful not to disturb the sleeping man.

# # # # #

" _Don't, Lieutenant, I can't let you go through with this. It's my life he wants." He watched as Father Driscoll put his left arm out and stepped in front of him… between him and the two barrels of Martin Novack's shotgun. His eyes snapped quickly back to Novack, and something in the young killer's eyes told him that there was now only one chance._

 _Lunging forward, he transferred all his weight into his arms, connecting solidly, and luckily, with the back of the priest's right shoulder, the unexpected momentum taking the bigger man down. As the priest dropped to the ground in front of him, his eyes snapped back to Novack, knowing instantly from the look in the cold dead eyes that it was too late…the trigger had been pulled. He had nowhere to go and he tried to brace himself for the impact..._

Mike started awake with a gasp, immediately regretting the sudden movement as pain seared through his right shoulder. Gritting his teeth and squeezing his eyes shut, he held his throbbing shoulder with his left hand until the pain started to recede.

He opened his eyes onto a dark room that he suddenly and happily remembered was his own. He pushed the covers away and sat up carefully, turning on the small lamp on the nightstand. His watch was on the small table and he picked it up, squinting at it under the light.

# # # # #

Steve heard the upstairs bathroom door close then reopen a couple of minutes later, followed by slow footsteps on the stairs. He got up from the kitchen table and crossed to the counter, opening an upper cupboard and taking out a mug. He turned when he heard movement at the kitchen entrance.

A disheveled, pajama-clad Mike, his untied dressing gown thrown over his shoulders, gave him a slight, wry smile. Neither said anything. Mike's left hand reached for the right side of his robe, as if trying to pull it closed. He cleared his throat slightly, glancing away. "I, ah, I can't do this up," he said quietly.

Despite himself, Steve smiled and shook his head, crossing to the older man. "I can see that," he replied softly as he pulled the robe closed, snagging the ends of the fabric belt and tying them snugly. "How are you feeling?"

Mike was watching his robe being tied. "Oh, ah, fine. I feel good. A little sore, but good." He followed Steve with his eyes as the younger man moved back to the counter. "Is it still Sunday?"

Chuckling, Steve picked up the clean mug. "Yeah, it's still Sunday. Do you want a cup of coffee? It's pretty fresh."

Smiling, Mike nodded and stepped further into the room. "Oh yeah. Thanks."

As Steve poured the coffee then added a spoonful of sugar, Mike sniffed the air. "Is that ravioli I smell?" he asked with a touch of wonder in his voice.

Steve turned away from the counter and handed Mike the cup. "I went out a little earlier and went to Emilio's. I figured you'd be hungry when you woke up."

Mike's eyes widened in appreciation and he grinned. "Have you eaten already?"

The younger man cleared his throat self-consciously. "No, ah, I was waiting for you," he answered with a slight smile and a tilt of his head. His time alone after the talk with Driscoll had gone a long way towards ameliorating the anger and frustration he had felt earlier. And now, seeing Mike up and about, looking and sounding better than expected, he relaxed even more. He picked up the oven mitts that were lying on the counter and opened the oven door.

Mike's grin grew even wider as he noticed the small kitchen table already set for two. He carefully lowered himself into his usual chair and watched as his young partner took the aluminum container out of the oven and set it on the trivet on top of the stove.

As Steve put the steaming plate of pasta dumplings in front of his partner, he smiled. "I wanted to get you something you could eat with one hand. I think that's going to be a priority for the next few days."

Mike chuckled as he picked up the fork with his left hand. "I think you're right." Waiting for Steve to sit after serving himself, Mike impaled a dumpling and popped it into his mouth. He closed his eyes and moaned in ecstasy.

Rewarded with a smile and gentle laugh from his dinner companion, Mike dropped his eyes, his demeanor suddenly turning serious. He speared another dumpling but hesitated before putting it in his mouth. "Steve…" he started then stopped, looking down at his plate and taking a deep breath, "I owe you an apology."

Steve stopped in mid-chew, then waited till Mike looked up at him before starting to shake his head. "No, you don't –"

"Yeah, I do," Mike cut him off with finality. "I was mad at myself today and I took it out on you, and I had no right to do that." He paused and looked down at his plate.

Steve waited, knowing from long experience that the older man wouldn't stop until he had said all he wanted and needed to say.

"There were mistakes made today, most of them mine, and I thank God that Andy's gonna be alright because if he had been killed, I don't know what I'd do."

"You didn't exactly come out of it unscathed yourself," Steve said gently, gesturing vaguely towards Mike's bandaged arm and shoulder.

Mike raised his eyebrows. "Oh, I know I was lucky, believe me. And I know things could have turned out a lot worse. But that still doesn't mean that mistakes weren't made and we could have done a better job." He paused again then said quickly, "Don't get me wrong, I'm proud of the job everyone did today, we got a killer off the streets. But if I'd've been sharper today, if I'd've had my head in the game like I should've, we would've caught Novack in the church – he should never have made it up to the Mount."

"Mike, you can't blame yourself for –"

"I could've made sure we did a sweep of the church before the service started, I could've noticed Novack leaving the confessional before he got the chance to ask for Father Driscoll. And I certainly shouldn't have passed out."

"You were in shock," Steve offered quietly.

"That's not an excuse!" Mike shot back then stopped himself, calming down. "And I really shouldn't've pulled that John Wayne stunt at the Cross. But in my own defense, when I saw Novack with that god-damned shotgun, all I could see was Tom lying on the floor of the church and all I felt was an overwhelming rage for everything he had done… and I just couldn't stop myself." He finished quietly, staring into nothing.

As an uneasy silence settled over them, Steve suddenly remembered Father Driscoll's words from earlier - his jest about only being able to stop Mike by running him over with the car - and he began to chuckle.

Taken aback, Mike stared at his young friend with an affronted frown. "What's so funny?"

Clearing his throat and shaking his head, though not quite succeeding in hiding his smile, he said quietly, "Just, ah, something Father Driscoll said tonight."

"Tonight? Father Driscoll was here tonight?"

"Ah, yeah, a couple of hours ago. He stopped by to see how you were doing."

"Oh," Mike said softly, with a small self-conscious smile and chuckle, looking down. Then his head snapped up again. "So what did he say?"

With a nervous cough, Steve got to his feet, picking up his still full plate and putting it on the counter then turning to the stove and rotating the oven knob. Mike followed him with his eyes, the Stone glare beginning to burn a hole in the back of his neck. "Oh, uh, it's, it wasn't anything…"

"You seem to find it funny. What did he say?"

Steve glanced at him briefly, his expression trying to say 'Drop it.' The glare continued. Steve looked at the table. "Hand me your plate."

"What?" Mike asked, suddenly confused.

Steve held a hand out. "Give me your plate. We've been talking so long the ravioli's getting cold, so I'm gonna heat up the plates. Hand it over."

Still slightly bewildered, Mike picked up his plate and handed it over. When Steve finally turned back to the table, he asked again, "So what did he say?"

Steve hesitated slightly, then shook his head in resignation as he sat; it had been too much to hope that the diversion of the plates might have made Mike lose his train of thought. With a slight shake of his head and a smile in his voice, he said, "We were talking about what went on today and I told him about what happened up on the Mount. He said he didn't know you too well but he had the feeling that probably the only way I could've stopped you was if I ran over you with the car." He stopped talking and waited.

Mike was staring at him blankly, as if not believing what he had heard. Long seconds dragged on and still Mike didn't move. Steve swallowed nervously and was just about to open his mouth to apologize when he saw Mike begin to shake and a smile start to spread across his face. The quiet chuckling quickly turned to a hearty laugh, one that Steve couldn't resist sharing.

The shaking starting to jar his injured shoulder, Mike grabbed it with his other hand and groaned in pain but didn't stop. "I do believe Father Driscoll might know me a lot better than he suspects," he managed to get out between chuckles, and both men could feel the tension drain from the room. He stared at Steve and smiled affectionately. "Thank you," he said softly.

Meeting the warm blue eyes evenly and returning the gentle smile, Steve nodded once. "You're welcome."

Clearing his throat self-consciously, Mike glanced at the stove. "So, uh do you think that ravioli is hot again? I'm still starving."

With a chuckle, Steve got up and crossed to the counter, putting on the mitts and opening the oven door. He set the two now-steaming plates on the table and tossed the mitts back onto the counter as he sat, grinning as he picked up the cloth napkin and put it on his lap.

"What?" Mike asked warily, picking up his fork.

Still smiling, Steve just shook his head and shrugged, stabbing at the pasta and popping the forkful into his mouth. With a chuckle, Mike looked down at his plate and skewered a couple of dumplings. "Oh, ah, the Giants played this afternoon. Did you hear how they did?"

Steve grabbed the napkin in his lap, got quickly to his feet and crossed to the radio on the counter, snapping it on. It was already preset on KSFO and the smooth tones of the news anchor filled the small kitchen.

"Did you have money on the game?" Steve asked with a smile as he sat again, relieved that their conversation had turned to more mundane matters. And as they casually discussed the Giants and propriety of police officers betting on sporting events, the heaviness of the day's events drifted away.


End file.
